I've decided to write you a short fairytale.
Once upon a time there was a wife. Her birthday fell on a Sunday in May and her happy, helpful, celebratory husband decided they should have a small party to celebrate it. He invited a handful of their mutual friends and excitably set about buying nice food and borrowing chairs and tidying up the house.
Over the winter, he had completely landscaped their garden so that it was now looking really beautiful in the fledgling spring. He swept and mopped the house in anticipation of the visitors.
The wife was 38 weeks pregnant, had SPD, suffered from a degree of social anxiety and was generally a bit of a miserable old haggis anyway.
AIBU to hope fervently to go into labour this evening so I don't have to go to my own birthday party?